


Butterflies, Pinned

by stapling_pages



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Child Abuse, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Semi-Nice Petunia, responsible adults
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 06:33:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stapling_pages/pseuds/stapling_pages
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A typical day in spring changes everything when Petunia remembers that she's meant to be a responsible adult.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Butterflies, Pinned

**Author's Note:**

> Oh god, what am I doing?
> 
> So I, uh, wanted a nice!Petunia fic and there...wasn't any. So I wrote one. Yeah.

Mornings for Petunia Dursley began early. Every day, she woke an hour and half before the rest of her household. Petunia did not believe in wasting daylight hours, and even though she was a stay-at-home mother and wife, Petunia had much to do to keep her lovely home in prime condition. Floors needed to be scrubbed; the fine china needed to be dusted and checked over for flaws, just in case; the dishes needed cleaning. Breakfast was a simple affair, but she still liked to wake up with plenty of time to spare. Her husband disliked missing breakfast, and there was no way that she was going to force her darling son to miss such an important part of the day. There were also the occasional luncheons that need advanced preparation.

This quiet spring morning, Petunia woke up certain that the day would be wonderful. She hummed softly as she showered, spent a few minutes selecting a blue, soft cotton dress, and pinned up her long blonde hair with a silver and violet clip Vernon had bought her last week. She briefly considered putting on a smattering of perfume along with her light dusting of make-up but decided against it. As quietly as she could, Petunia kissed her husband on the cheek and left their bedroom.

Petunia lightly stepped down the stairs, avoiding the middle step as it squeaked terribly, and hurried through the hallway into her domain. She flicked the lights on. The kitchen was Petunia’s favorite room in the house. The stainless steel appliances shone and the floor – large, stone tiles imported from Italy – sparkled. Polished granite made up the counters, except for an area near the stove, which was instead a hefty butcher-block cutting board. The walls were painted a warm, pale orange reminiscent of tea sweetened with milk and honey. Here, she was safe. Here, Petunia could pretend that her life was perfect.

She smiled softly and began breakfast. A pan was set onto the stove; the bacon and sausage was removed from the refrigerator and placed on the butcher-block to await preparation. She opened a cabinet, took out a glass bowl for the eggs and a large serving platter, and set both aside for later.

She paused. Fingers tapping on the granite surface of her counters, Petunia looked around her. Bacon, sausage and eggs were all well and good for her boys but she wanted something else, something healthier. Even though it was spring, the mornings were still rather chilly… Her eyes caught on the bundle of bananas. Hmm, perhaps she would make porridge? Yes, that would do nicely. Decision made, Petunia went to the pantry for the oats and added a three-quart saucepan to the stove. She poured enough oats into the saucepan for three servings as well as the water before turning the heat to medium. She stirred the mixture thoroughly.

Now it was time to start the bacon. With a knife, she cut open the package and then began pulling the slices apart, setting as many as she could into the skillet. She turned on the burner. That finished, Petunia grabbed the teakettle and moved to the sink. As she began filling the kettle, she heard a quiet scuffle followed by the soft click of the cupboard door opening. The boy was awake. How troublesome. She glanced at the porridge then reached over to stir it again.

“Set the table,” she said, without turning around, as soon as she heard the kitchen door open.

“Yes, Aunt Petunia,” said the boy.

Water sloshed over the sides of the kettle as Petunia jerked her head around to stare suspiciously at the boy. His voice had been unusually high and almost pained. The boy didn’t notice her staring. Quickly, she cut the water and turned back. He moved slowly over to the china cabinet, shuffling his feet with a strange reluctance. His lip was caught between his teeth and his eyebrows were drawn in a tight grimace. He stopped before the oak piece, placing most of his weight on his right leg. Petunia frowned.

She went about finishing breakfast with half her attention focused on him. The boy continued to walk slowly, and she frequently caught him limping. He leaned heavily against the table as he laid out the place settings, lingering longer than normal to avoid putting pressure on his left leg. When he moved to pick up the platter of food, Petunia quickly waved him away.

“Sit down.” She pretended she didn’t notice his obvious relief as he sank into one of the chairs. Feeling strangely angry for reasons she did not want to think about, Petunia sliced up two bananas for her and the boy’s breakfast, and divided the slices into separate bowls. She spooned a serving of oatmeal into each along with a teaspoon of brown sugar. She ignored the boy’s astonishment at the unusual treat.

Vernon never allowed the boy anything sweet, claiming that it was a waste of resources. Normally, she agreed but the boy was injured and likely would not tell her the truth about how it happened if she did not lower his guard. Regardless of her feelings on the matter, that awful letter left with the boy when he’d been dumped on her doorstep had made it clear that the wizards would only leave them alone if they looked after the boy’s basic needs. The very last thing Petunia wanted was for those wretched _freaks_ to be anywhere near her or her son.

“Eat,” Petunia commanded as though she had not done something very out of character. The boy hurried to comply. He ate the hot porridge with gusto, barely pausing for breath between bites. Good, the boy was abnormally thin; he never seemed to keep on any weight. The spoon paused halfway to his mouth as he noticed her staring; he gave her a shy, hesitant smile. Petunia’s insides churned as they went cold. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him smile. Feeling rather out of her depth, she returned to her cooking.

The teakettle whistled. Quickly, she removed it from the heat and poured the boiling water into a teapot, in which she had already put several spoonfuls of Assam tea. Petunia steeled herself; she moved to the table and poured herself a cup of tea, carefully avoiding looking at the boy beside her. Tense silence reigned, broken only by the scrape of spoons against porcelain and the clinking of teacup and saucer. By the time Vernon strolled into the kitchen, the boy only had a few bites left and was glancing hopefully at the rest of the oatmeal.

“Good morning, dear,” Petunia greeted her husband.

Out of the corner of her eye, Petunia watched the boy freeze the minute he noticed his uncle. The boy’s head dropped, his shoulders hunched over as he tried to make himself as small as possible, and something like tears wet the corners of his eyes. That was new. A dark, uncomfortable suspicion grew in the pit of her stomach.

“G’mornin’.” She forced a sweet smile onto her face when Vernon turned to her mid-yawn, determined not to ruin her husband’s morning.

He always got so upset whenever the boy behaved strangely. There wasn’t really anything wrong with the boy, she tried to convince herself; Vernon would have told her last night if something had happened while she had been out shopping. The boy was only trying to garner undeserved sympathy again. Yes, that was it. Petunia’s smile turned more genuine as she nearly convinced herself. She willfully ignored the fact that the boy was a horrible liar and rarely tried to attract anyone’s attention.

“Is Dudley up yet?” she asked.

“No,” Vernon said as he dished himself a few large spoonfuls of scrambled eggs, sausage, and several rashes of bacon. “Had a bit of a late night. He didn’t want to go to bed until his mother was home.” Her husband grinned at her while she giggled.

“Well, I suppose a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt.”

“Yes, yes. But don’t let him sleep in too long, Petunia.” Vernon paused to take a large gulp of his tea. “A man’s gotta know how to stick to a schedule.”

“Of course, dear,” she said. Never mind that Vernon liked to sleep in as long as he could on his off-days. They leisurely continued their breakfast until the mail-slot clicked open and then closed. She set down her teacup to go fetch the mail, but Vernon laid his hand on her arm and shook his head.

He swallowed his mouthful of food and said, “The boy will get it.” Then he turned and glared darkly. The boy flinched. Quickly, the boy shot out of his chair and through the kitchen door, limping the entire way. Petunia forced herself not to react beyond the slight clenching of her jaw. He returned moments later, hovering at her side as he shakily handed her husband several envelopes. While Vernon was distracted with the mail, she shooed the boy back into his seat.

She kept her shoulders free of tension as Vernon polished off his meal. Petunia rose from her seat when he did and smiled as he kissed her on the cheek. She didn’t even frown when her husband paused to growl a low warning for the boy to behave, pretending to ignore the genuine fear on the boy’s face as he quailed and the dark pleasure in Vernon’s eyes. She kept her voice light as she wished him a good day from the front step. Her smile dropped the moment her husband’s car was out of sight.

“Now,” Petunia began as soon as she reentered her kitchen, “tell me what happened to your leg.”

She stopped within arm’s reach of the still-seated boy and stared down at him, her face frozen in a firm expression. His thin jaw trembled. Bottle green eyes stared at her with fear from behind thick, oversized glasses before flicking away. They moved desperately around the room, searching desperately for something. His eyes paused on the door to the hallway before glancing back at her; he looked away again. Slowly, the shaking lessened as he curled into a guilty slouch. The boy was going to lie to her. Petunia scowled.

“I – I tripped,” he said finally, in a mumble.

“You tripped, did you?”

“Um, y-yeah. Down the stairs,” he said, keeping his eyes away from hers. Slowly, her arms rose to fold over her chest as she stared daggers at the top of his head. She watched him for several more minutes as the boy fidgeted in his seat, waiting to see if he would tell her the truth on his own. It soon became very apparent that he would not. The boy kept his head stubbornly down, shoulders set in a defensive hunch. Sighing heavily, she waved him out of his seat and toward the hall.

“Fine,” she snapped, “go get ready for school.”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia.”

He shuffled as quickly as he dared out the kitchen and down the hall to his cupboard. Petunia winched; she could never quite understand why she had allowed the boy to continue sleeping there. They had a spare room in addition to the guestroom they kept for Vernon’s sister Marjorie that the boy could use, but something always prevented her from moving the boy into it. The last time she had tried, Vernon had received a call from Colonel Fubster, Marjorie’s close friend and one of her neighbors, informing him that the woman had fallen very ill. Vernon had rushed them to his sister’s house, and in the resulting confusion, Petunia forgot her plans.

Quickly, she forced these thoughts out of her head; Petunia did not have time for distractions. She strode purposely down the hall, up the stairs, and past her son’s room and into her bedroom. The Dursley household had two telephones, one downstairs in the kitchen and another in the couple’s bedroom. Normally she wouldn’t bother heading upstairs simply to make a phone call, but the boy’s cupboard was close enough to the kitchen that he would be able to hear her side of the call and knowing the boy as she did, he likely would do something stupid if he had any forewarning.

Petunia lifted the telephone from its cradle and quickly began dialing Yvonne’s number. Her friend had the day off from her nursing job and was tolerant enough of the boy that she wouldn’t mind looking at his leg. Hopefully she had time to stop by the house before the boys had to be at the bus stop. It was on the third ring that Yvonne answered her telephone.

“Hello?”

“Yes, hello; it’s Petunia.”

“My, my. Calling me before ten on my day off; I’ve half a mind to hang up!” Yvonne teased.

“I know it’s early but can you come over right now? There’s something wrong with the bo– with Harry’s leg,” she said, winching at the sound of the boy’s name. “I’ve no idea what it is; you know how terrible I am at this sort of thing and–” She would have continued to ramble on had Yvonne not cut in.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Try to keep him from walking around too much.”

“Y-yes, of course; see you soon.” They hung up at the same time.

Petunia stood alone in the silent bedroom she shared with her husband of ten years, staring blankly ahead and wondering. This was hardly the first time the boy – _her nephew_ , a small guilty voice whispered – had gotten hurt but she’d never bothered to pay much attention to his injuries before. Why was it so different this time? She didn’t know and that worried her. True, before now it had only been small bumps and bruises, the sort of injuries seven-year-old boys normally get. But now there was something wrong with Harry’s leg, something he was afraid to tell her about and suddenly, the boy was terrified of Vernon. Unbidden, her hand rose to a temple pressing lightly in hopes of starving off an oncoming headache.

Sighing heavily through her nose, Petunia left her bedroom. She pushed open the door to her son’s room, entered, and set about convincing Dudley to wake up and face the world. It took longer than she would have liked, but eventually her son was yawning widely as he shuffled into the bathroom. With a shake of her head and a small smile, Petunia returned to the kitchen to lie in wait.

The boy – her nephew, _Harry_ , she reminded herself – covertly poked his head into the room, eyeing the corners as though he expected something horrible to jump out at him. This, she realized with a start, was not a new occurrence. He had been skulking for weeks now, flinching whenever someone yelled and barricading himself in his cupboard when Vernon came home in a rage. She wasn’t sure what had started this behavior. Vernon seemed to think the boy was just trying to get attention. Petunia didn’t bother hiding her frown when the bo– when her nephew spotted her and shrank.

“Hurry up and sit,” she ordered.

The boy obeyed without question. Head bowed, he sat anxiously with his small fists balled up and pressed into his knees, clearly waiting for the other shoe to drop. As she reached passed him for the teapot, he tensed even further until his thin shoulders trembled with tension. Petunia forced her jaw to unclench, and forced down the spike of irritation, though the tea she put in front of the boy sloshed with the force she used to set it down. Slowly, she moved around the table to begin dishing up Dudley’s breakfast.

“Um, Aunt Petunia?”

“What?” She glanced at the boy, who was staring wearily at the cup.

“Um, I – well…”

“Drink it; I wouldn’t have given it to you if you weren’t allowed,” she said, quickly resuming her task. “Are you still hungry?”

“Huh?” He blinked rapidly at her, and then shook his head roughly. “Oh, no, not really,” he said.

Armed with her verbal permission, the boy reached for his tea and began taking small sips. He was still sitting stiffly, but was slowly relaxing now that he had decided Petunia was not angry with him. As she set down Dudley’s finished plate and moved to start packing the boys’ lunches, she caught the boy giving her a shy smile over the rim of his cup. That was the second smile today and she found herself returning this one. The tension immediately returned with the thud of footsteps coming down the stairs. Dudley rushed into the kitchen, grinning widely and still dressed in his pajamas.

“Morning, mum!” said Dudley, throwing his arms around her middle.

“Good morning, Dudders.” She said and gave him a quick hug and kiss to the cheek before letting him scramble into his chair.

Three sandwiches were wrapped in cling film, and two servings of leftover pasta salad were portioned into traveling containers. One of the sandwiches and pasta salads were placed in a paper bag along with an apple. The remaining food went into Dudley’s lunchbox; she added an apple and a small bag of chocolate cookies. She pulled two partially frozen bottles of orange juice from the freezer and packed those into the lunches as well.

Petunia had just settled into her chair when the doorbell rang. Sighing, she waved for Harry to stay seated and stood to hurry out of the room. She wrenched open the front door and quickly ushered Yvonne inside. The dark-haired, dark-eyed woman gave her a shrewd look as she slipped out of her light jacket. A sharp glance silenced whatever the older woman was preparing to say. Petunia drew her into a hug.

“What happened?” Yvonne said.

“I asked him and he says he fell down the stairs,” she whispered into Yvonne’s ear. “Vernon didn’t say anything happened while I was out yesterday but he was acting rather odd, and I… The boy is skittish and won’t make prolonged eye contact. It might not be anything but…”

“Okay. I’ll check and if I find anything, I’ll let you know.” They pulled away from each other, chatting just loudly enough for the boys to hear them about Mrs. Reich’s sterling silver roses and whether they would have a chance against Mrs. Andresen’s orange tulips. “Good morning, boys,” Yvonne said, as they entered the kitchen.

“Morning, Miss Yvonne,” they chorused. The woman smiled mildly and sat across from Harry. Dudley looked curiously at his mother’s friend before shrugging and polishing off the last of his food. Petunia immediately set upon him, intent on thoroughly distracting him with getting dressed and ready for school as she lead him from the room. Just before the door closed behind the mother and son, she heard Yvonne ask an innocent question about Harry’s schoolwork.

Several minutes later, Dudley was on the verge of a tantrum, unable to fathom why he was being made to prepare for school when his cousin was still sitting at the table talking with one of his mother’s friends. Petunia wondered if he even realized Harry was hurt at all. She knew the boys didn’t like each other, largely because she and Vernon had encouraged Dudley not to become close to his cousin. There wasn’t anything wrong with that, she was certain, since she was protecting her son from any _freakish_ business. Petunia would not let her precious son be hurt like she was.

By the time Yvonne left the kitchen, grim-faced and alone, the bus had come and gone taking Dudley with it. Hands wringing, Petunia stared nervously at her from her spot on the sofa. Yvonne remained silent until she was seated beside her.

“Tunia,” she began softly, reaching out to hold her friend’s hands, “what is going on in this house?”

“What do you mean,” asked Petunia even though she had a fair idea. For a little while longer, she wanted to be able to pretend things were fine. Yvonne frowned and made to pull her hands away, but in the end decided not to. Instead she tightened her grip.

“Your nephew is sitting in your kitchen with a severely swollen ankle – which might be broken – in addition to being very underweight. He’s terrified of Vernon, thinks you hate him and barely responds to his own name. Petunia, things cannot go on like this.”

“I – you’re right, of course.” She stopped herself from going on, taking deep breaths.

“Then _why_ , Tunia?”

“Because I’m scared. I’m scared that if I let myself grow attached, things will turned out just as it did with Lily. He’ll get a letter from _that school_ and leave and have no time for anything that was there before, and then he’ll grow up. And once he does they’ll get him killed just like they did Lily! I can’t do that again, I can’t.

“There was a letter with him when he arrived, you know. Short and to the point: ‘Hello. Your little sister has been murdered along with her husband; here’s her son. Have a lovely day!’” Petunia was hysterical by now, nearly yelling and heedless that Harry would be able to hear her from the kitchen. “That was all. A letter and a baby on the doorstep; didn’t even check to see if we were home. He could have been kidnapped. He could have died!”

She felled back against the couch as if her strings had been cut, suddenly drained of energy. “What am I going to do,” she asked herself quietly. There was very little chance that Harry would ever forgive her for not being the aunt he needed, just like Lily never really forgave her for not being the older sister she needed. Her eyes burned with tears.

“Aunt Petunia?”

Petunia lifted her head from the back of the couch and stared at her nephew. His eyes were glossy with the beginnings of tears and his jaw trembled as he blinked rapidly. Slowly, she sat up, raised her arms and waited anxiously. He swallowed roughly then dashed across the room to bury himself in her embrace. Neither noticed as the room’s third occupant quietly left.

Yvonne smiled as she watched her friend settle her nephew in a cocoon of blankets. They were both a little teary-eyed from earlier, but Petunia had regained most of her level-headedness and Harry was starting to smile a bit. That was significant improvement from how things were before. Now, it was just a matter of making sure it stayed that way.

Petunia had the unfortunate tendency to over-emphasize the negative, either in people or in events, until she convinced herself that giving up and letting go was her best option. She would have to keep reminding herself to move past whatever bad blood there was between her and Lily’s memory. Yvonne blinked and stood straighter from where she had been leaning on a doorframe as Petunia approached her.

“Yvonne–”

“You’ll be fine. Just remember to keep pressure off his leg and to keep the ankle wrapped and iced for a few days.”

“How could he possibly trust me? After everything that happened?” said Petunia with a dark frown.

She gave her friend a quick hug. “You’re family; you can fix this.”

“The family bit never seemed to matter before.” It was a bitter admission.

“Then it can start now,” Yvonne said. “You don’t have to start big, Petunia, you just have to start.”

“Where did you get that?”

“Fortune cookie.” They shared a smile, weak though it was. “Well, I’ll be seeing you.” 

“Yes; have a good day.”

Petunia watched Yvonne round the corner onto Quince Street then stepped back into the house. She leaned heavily against the door for several minutes, trying to clear her thoughts of the panic tearing through them. Breathing deep and slow, she felt some of the tension drain away. The boy – Harry, she reminded herself – was nearly asleep on the sofa and there were still a few chores that needed to be done. Pleased with the thought of a distraction, Petunia returned to the kitchen.

She believed in keeping her home in peak condition, so when an hour passed by Petunia no longer had anything to distract her from her nephew. Hovering in the doorway, she watched the boy sleep. His eyebrows were drawn together, no doubt do to his ankle, but the rest of his expression was peacefully neutral. Slowly, she crept into the room to settle in a nearby armchair with a book she’d been meaning to read and waited.

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a multi-chaptered thing but it just wasn't happening.


End file.
